Sinema: The Northumberland Massacre (26 page)

But now old friends are acting strange,

They shake their heads, they say I’ve changed,

Well something’s lost, but something’s gained,

In living every day,

I’ve looked at life from both sides now,

From win and lose and still somehow,

Its life’s illusions I recall,

I really don’t know life at all.

With hunched shoulders and knife dangling loosely by his side, Whitman walked behind the bar. A couple of glasses lay on the floor, dislodged from the shelves when Big Joe impacted against the bar. Stepping over them, he plucked a tumbler from the top shelf and moved in silence to the
Jack Daniels
optic.

He proceeded to empty several shots into the glass until it was nearly full. His hand was trembling ever so slightly as he brought the glass to his lips. It stopped an inch away from his mouth as he caught his reflection in the mirror behind the row of optics. His face was pale and sweating with smears of fresh blood drying on his cheeks and in his moist, unkempt beard. Dark, bruised rings encircled bloodshot auburn eyes.

He stared deep into the eyes that reflected back at him, studying them, venturing well beyond them. Tears welled up then dribbled down his cheeks. Suddenly his head began to spin and his legs felt like leaden weights. He slammed the glass down hard, spilling splashes of the whiskey on the bar. His hands covered his face as he sobbed uncontrollably.

Kicking and a' gouging in the mud and the blood and the beer.

Despite having been closed for a couple of hours, the Duck & Bucket still had several patrons sat in the bar at various stages of inebriation. In addition to Geordie behind the bar, Simon and Kim were sitting with their son, Danny at one of the small round tables in the corner and Duncan and Loretta were sitting at the bar.

Chris De Burgh was singing hauntingly about a travelling spaceman on the jukebox.

And it hung in the sky like a star, just like a star
...

He followed light and came down to a shed,

Where a mother and a child were lying there on a bed,

A bright light of silver shone round his head,

And he had the face of an angel, and they were afraid
...

Downing the dregs of his pint of lager, Geordie said, “Anyone dry?”

Knocking back the rest of his pint, Duncan cheerfully said, “’Nother pint of Jarrow’s finest, barkeep and a white wine for the laaady!”

“Aye, two more here too, Geordie,” Simon said, referring to himself and Danny, who was looking pale and staring down at the three quarters of a pint still in front of him.

Kim glanced at Danny then turned to Geordie. “Don’t get Danny another – I’ll take him home in a bit. I’ll have a quick gin and tonic though before I go.”

As Geordie worked the
Rivet Catcher Ale
pump, the lights flickered once and then died. With them, the music was also abruptly silenced, and the twinkling fairy lights on the rather small, skeletal Christmas tree in the bay window winked out. Looking up from the half filled glass, he glanced around the room swathed in darkness. “Bollocks.”

“This crap happens almost every year round here when the weather turns particularly bad,” the shadowy form of Duncan said, with mild irritation.

“You could’ve just told us to sup up, Geordie!” Simon shouted from the darkness. “This is a bit extreme!”

“Anyone know if Tess kept any candles or a torch anywhere?” Geordie asked, setting the pint aside and scrutinising the gloomy shelves below the bar. “Cannat see shite, man.”

“I think … I’m gunna … be sick,” Danny uttered through a salivating mouth, staggering to his feet in a hurry and knocking his stool clattering to the floor.

“Hang on, nee one move till I get some light on the situation.”

Kim fumbled for her son’s arm in the gloom. “Don’t worry, Geordie, I’ll take him to the toilet. Don’t want him redecorating in here.”

“Didn’t Tess used to keep some candles in the cupboard under the till?” Loretta asked no one in particular. “I’m sure that’s where she got them from when this happened in January.”

“Gunna be sick,” Danny muttered as he and his mother clumsily made their way through the gloom. “Gunna be—” His voice was cut short by a distinctive whoosh, followed immediately by a slicing of flesh and the briefest, soft gurgle.

Danny, suddenly a dead-weight, toppled, taking the much smaller Kim with him. She landed heavily on his stomach, confused and dazed. “Danny?” Feeling up his chest, her hands touched warm stickiness. Her voice shrill with fear, she repeated, “Danny!”

“Kim? Danny?” Simon called, standing up and squinting towards his wife’s voice. “What’s wrong?”

Duncan and Loretta both got to their feet too at the sound of Kim’s frightened voice, Loretta’s hand instinctively searching out Duncan’s once again.

“Found some candles!” Geordie said. “All of you just stay calm!”

“
Kim
,” a voice whispered in her ear, hot breath a mere inch away.

She screamed and instinctively shrank away. A disturbance in the air preceded a white hot explosion of pain in the back of her neck. She blacked out a moment before she died.

Panic wrapped its sharp grip around Simon. He cast aside a chair and the table and rushed in the direction of his wife and son. “Kim! Danny!”

Duncan forcibly detached himself from Loretta’s trembling hand and headed towards Simon’s stricken family. “Si, I’m coming!”

With a sinking feeling and a flurry of regrets for accepting the temporary job, Geordie hastily pulled out a candle and box of matches from the cupboard below the till. Quickly, but calmly, he lit up a candle.

As the darkness lifted a notch, Simon stopped short of stumbling over the bodies of his wife and son. They were lying together, seemingly embracing each other in death. Despite the poor, almost liquid light, Simon recognised the blood and stillness immediately. An agonised cry burst from his lips as he felt a presence to his left.

Duncan noticed the shadowy figure close in quickly on the distraught baker and cried out a warning. Too late.

The black form moved with unaccustomed speed and grace, seemingly floating on the air. Grabbing him around the face with one sticky glove, Whitman pulled Simon towards him and ripped open his throat with one fluid movement.

Duncan rushed forward with fists raised, but the sheer savagery caused him a moment of pause. Seeing the knife, he frantically glanced around for a weapon of his own.

“My God!” Loretta screamed as she caught a glimpse of dark fluid jetting across the room from the baker’s throat. “Simon!”

Setting the candle down, Geordie shouted, “Who the fuck is that?” Instinctively, he grabbed an empty bottle of
Newcastle Brown Ale
from a crate at his feet and proceeded to smash the base of it off the bar top. “You fuckin’ want some, do you?”

Whitman cast Simon’s body aside, not interested enough to notice that it fell upon the bodies of his family. His strides towards the remaining three appeared casual, but there was a rising impatience in him that was manifesting in his no nonsense, swift kills. He was dog tired and emotionally drained. The killing – especially certain individuals – had taken more out of him than he cared to admit.

As Loretta backed away along the edge of the bar, the whites of her eyes glinting in the candlelight, Duncan grabbed a barstool and brandished it over his head. “Stay back, Lor!” he shouted, positioning himself in the way.

Geordie planted one hand on the bar and vaulted over to land next to Duncan. “Come on then, motherfucker!” Without taking his eyes off the intruder, he added, “Who is this bastard?”

To their surprise, Whitman nonchalantly slipped the knife back into its sheath. In the next moment though, they realised why. Whitman drew the pistol and aimed it at Duncan’s head. His teeth appeared unnaturally white in the iridescent light.

Smiling, Whitman said, “Yep, stay back, Lor, because things are going to get a little messy when big Dunc here finds out that his daughter is dead.”

As a burst of horror erupted across Duncan’s usually relaxed, sociable face, Geordie quickly interjected, “Divvent listen to him, Dunc. He’s messing with your head; trying to get you to let your guard down.” Turning to Whitman, he growled, “What is your fuckin’ malfunction?”

Nodding, through gritted teeth, Duncan said, “Yeah, that gun’s probably just a cap gun.”

Chewing his bottom lip, Whitman said, “You could be right there, Private Pile.” As Duncan and Geordie considered their options, Whitman made the decision for them. He pulled the trigger.

The crack of the pistol discharging in the confined space left a ringing in the ears. Both Geordie and Loretta flinched, half ducking at the sound. Geordie recovered immediately, having heard gunshots on several previous occasions.

Duncan had dropped to the floor with a neat hole in his forehead and a bewildered look on his face. A trickle of blood oozed out of the scorched entry wound.

Acknowledging that he was out of options, Geordie took the only chance he had; he surged forward screaming, “COME ON!”

There was something hugely satisfying about finally discharging the Walther. It was almost as if the handgun completed him somehow and it certainly seemed to immediately quell his rising edginess. He didn’t have time to ponder on it any further right now, but it was something to mull over at a later date.

It took a fraction of a second to switch aim to the temporary landlord. Geordie had cleared the distance in no time, but, as he swiped the broken bottle towards Whitman’s head, the gun spoke first.

The bullet tore through his throat and exited out the other side, lodging in the bar a couple of feet from Loretta’s screaming form. His momentum carried him forward into Whitman and both men fell to the floor with a scrambling clatter.

On top, and with blood pumping out of his throat, Geordie snarled through red teeth, spitting blood in Whitman’s face. Struggling with the skinhead’s solid weight, Whitman squirmed to pull the pistol out from under his thigh.

“… Kill
yeee
…” Geordie spluttered, blood and saliva dribbling down his chin in gooey threads. The bottle lost, he struggled to bring his hands up to Whitman’s throat.

As Geordie’s slimy hands tightened around his neck, Whitman managed to dislodge the pistol from under his leg. The barman’s grip was vice-like, despite his wound and immediately caused Whitman to gag. With a whiff of alarm, he hastily pulled the gun up to Geordie’s temple and pulled the trigger. The recoil nearly jerked the pistol clean out of his hand as Geordie’s head was wrenched to one side with the impact.

Blood pumped out of the entry hole in Geordie’s temple and brains and splinters of skull spilled out of the exit wound and splashed sickeningly on the floor. With a little less self-control than he would’ve liked, Whitman thrashed out, shoving the barman’s still twitching body off him and struggled to his feet. He blinked and coughed from his near throttling, holding his red throat with his free hand and the still smoking pistol in the other.

Loretta had curled into a ball and was sobbing, with her hands masking her face from the horrific events unfolding in front of her at breakneck speed. Her husband and friends lay dead, but it was all too quick and incomprehensible to fully appreciate.

Breathing heavily, he felt the creeping onset of fatigue anew, burrowing into every joint and muscle with spiralling tenacity. It had been a long night and there was still plenty yet to do. But at least the worst was over. His thoughts returned to Lisa momentarily; her face, at first fearful and then enraged. Although banished almost as quickly as it had appeared, its presence left its mark, tainting him. Steamrollering through the mounting feelings, Whitman walked over towards the Duck’s last living occupant with pistol in hand.

Before curling up and hugging her knees while crying softly, Loretta had made it to the end of the bar. He could just make out her husband’s name repeated amongst her weeping. Looking down at her shivering body, he said “Hail to the king, baby!” then shot her repeatedly in her pretty, sandy head.